Don't Dream It's Over
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Dreams. Dreams are where they met, fell in love and made love. Now, separated from one another dreams hold the key to finding each other. Trouble is, Sherlock never remembers his dreams. Established relationship. Johnlock. Rated M Sequel to Private Universe - which really should be read first
1. They Come to Build a Wall Between Us

**A/N: Well here you go. A long awaited and sometimes asked for sequel to **_**Private Universe**_**. The story is also inspired a wee bit by a **_**Crowded House**_** song, this one a little more familiar. Chapter titles will come from the lyrics, but will not necessarily be in order (as you can see by the first chapter –messing around already). The original story was based on **_**The Cage**_** and influenced a bit by **_**Inception**_**. There may be some elements creeping in here from both of those sources.**

**Thanks to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over.**

1\. They Come to Build a Wall Between Us

The air was full of alien sounds and redolent with tropical flowers, not the familiar and homey sounds of traffic or the strains of a melancholy violin. There was no smell of wet pavement after a summer shower or car exhaust. Fatigue weighed his feet and each step taken felt one too many, with the lift and pull of tired and aching muscles becoming unbearable. Although the water would be cool on his toes, walking through the surf would be gruelling and exacerbate his thirst. Humidity was thick and warm, a heavy blanket unwelcome on a steamy summer night. There was a desperate urge to sleep, but he needed to find clean water, soon. Then he would curl up on the shore and let go.

It was a draining, this heat, unrelenting and constant, a whine of a mosquito in the dark. The warmth of the desert had been more his style. He'd almost relished the way the moisture evaporated off his skin as soon as it formed. As long as you drank plenty and weren't stupid out in the sun, it was bearable. There was a saying, one from somewhere. He remembered laughter and the sound of it as it crossed his lips. Nostalgic. Every time you said 'yeah but it's a dry heat' you had to buy a round.

(_But…_

_When was that?_

_When had he been in the desert?_)

It was all rather muddled at the moment.

Sweat gathered and trickled down from his temples. It was tickling the back of his neck as well; a slow constant drip, annoying and itchy. He could feel it leaching the moisture out of him. An urgent, if not outright dangerous need to find a source of water hummed through him.

The problem was…

The _problems_ were he didn't know where he was, he didn't know how he had arrived here, and most importantly he still hadn't decided if it was real or imagined. If imagined, if dreamt of (_in heaven and earth_) he had no anchor. He should have an anchor. That thought scared him more than the thick, canopy of trees and the temperature. He knew this, intrinsically, intimately. There had been a time, once…

There was nothing else he could do except continue to trudge up the beach. It had taken him days (_had it?_) to reach the beach.

That was not possible. He'd only been here minutes. If he'd been here days he would have succumbed to dehydration. It was not days, then.

He stopped and took a good look around.

Sand underfoot, pinkish rather than beige or white, dry and fine against his bare feet. Although it had seemed close to midday, a huge, luminous moon, full and ripe, hung low on the horizon. It was out of place and out of season. Bigger than he remembered, like a harvest moon, but with an odd greenish hue darkening its features. The sky was painted, like Turner, bleeding and changing, blended together in a sunset palette of colours, vibrant and glowing. It didn't feel like nightfall. A constant rumble and murmur of the waves as they marched against the shore was soothing, but there was a discordant note underneath. Something was telling him he should not be here and this wasn't right. Loud screeches and calls carried through the trees. Most likely birds, but possibly animal life teamed through the undergrowth. Strange mutterings, almost understood whispers travelled on the breeze gusting from the ocean. An incessant beeping noise. Strange. It seemed man made on an island where nothing was artificial (_was it?_).

Hands on hips, he took stock of himself (_his name was?_). He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt; his feet were bare, pale from lack of sun. Well they didn't get much in England (_England_) this time of year. He wiped his brow and felt a wave of dizziness. He needed fresh water, now.

Looking down the beach, out to sea, he could see where the water appeared to be a slightly different colour and the foliage was thicker. He broke into a tired jog. It could be an indication of fresh water, perhaps a stream or river heading to the ocean. Before he could understand a lot of what was going on, before he could really think about it, he was where the stream came out of the trees. Trees were thick here but there was an almost path he could follow. He followed the water source away from where it mixed with the ocean. His thirst was becoming unbearable and he almost threw himself down. He waited until he was far enough along and started to slowly drink. He wished his hunger could be so easily assuaged. There was something tickling at the edges of his mind. A book, a children's book. Finding the water under a canopy of trees, following the river up until it was no longer salty, wishing for food to eat.

The children had found an orchard, ancient and abandoned in the ruins of a castle. Apples.

Hope rose in his chest. It should be here. He turned swiftly looking. But it wasn't.

It should be there. It was always there.

An apple tree.

Its absence ached through him, a pain swift and sure, the loss of something large and gaping.

The loss of someone. He could almost grasp it, flickering in front of him like the light sparking off of the river onto the undersides of the swaying branches.

No time for this. Thirst slaked, he knew it would be sensible to build some sort of shelter and figure out how he was going to survive…here. For now, he would sleep on the beach. Tomorrow would be soon enough for his needs. He was so tired, like he'd been sick for a very long time and was just now getting better.

He found a place to sleep, far enough from the waterline to not be worried about high tides encroaching, but not too close to the jungle to be concerned with animals coming out and eating him. Sleeping naked was not an option, although that was a preference, not clothes or covers in the summer. He lay in the shadow of a large chunk of driftwood he hadn't remembered seeing when he first came down the beach.

Heavy with sleep, puzzled thoughts straggled after, chasing around in his brain. One thought wouldn't quite leave. Everything was just a bit surreal and the colours were too bright. Maybe it was like that in the tropics. Eyes finally closed and mind still, he began to fall into a deep sleep. He missed the feel of long skinny arms clenching at him, a hand splayed across his chest. The sounds of someone breathing deeply and shifting behind him, a deep voice whispering in his ear, words he couldn't quite make out.

Something about, something about love, about meeting in dreams…

That made him wake up and stare out across the water.

That was ridiculous. _He_ (_his name, what was his name_) would have never said that. _He_ never remembered meeting in dreams.


	2. Tales of War and of Waste

**A/N: Here is some background information to help if perhaps you haven't read **_**Private Universe**_**. There's also a bit of info here regarding what Sarah &amp; Mike have been up to since the last story:D And of course a bit of plot:P**

**Thank you mattloved1 for reading this over:D And convincing me not to kill anyone off just yet:D (Except for some minor off screen lackeys that is!)**

2\. Tales of War and of Waste

The taxi pulled up to the kerb in front of 221B and as soon as it was remotely safe to do so, Sherlock exited the vehicle. In his hurry, he almost forgot to pay. John usually did that, but frustratingly John wasn't here. He shoved down feelings of annoyance, threw some money at the cabbie and hurried to the familiar black door. Pulling out his keys, he opened it with a thrum of impatience. He climbed the 17 steps quickly and with a surefooted grace, skipping every other step in his hurry to see John.

Sherlock had been absent for more than a week. A case of high interest and unusual clues had caught his attention and he'd left to pursue it. John had been unable to come as he had already committed to doing a favour for Mycroft. The interfering git had pleaded with John's good nature and talked him into something highly classified. Sherlock did not have a good nature and had whined and grumbled, but relented when he saw a different sort of excitement in John. It wasn't often he had the chance to practice any of his dream therapy these days and he had missed it more than he thought he would. Besides, Mycroft had promised the use of his villa in the south of France if John helped out. John had then proceeded to whisper all of the things he would do to Sherlock when they got there. He showed him a thing or two as well before he left, just to keep him on edge.

The thought that perhaps he'd get another sample of exactly what John had in mind after being away from each other added a spring in his step. John could be extremely creative.

Two years had flown by since they'd first met inside Sherlock's head and there had been very few times when they were separated from one another. Even now, close proximity sent a frission of heat through Sherlock and all they had to do was look at one another and the desire to tear each other's clothes off surfaced. Something chemical had happened to them when they had dream merged and it left an indelible imprint. Gestures, movement, swift glances and they knew what the other was thinking. It added a certain spice to their relationship. Granted, it was also practical when chasing down criminals.

Sherlock did have one regret. Although he could look at John and know what he was thinking when they were awake, he still did not remember details of time spent together in what John described as their private shelter. Inside his head, during time spent trying to pull Sherlock out of a long ago coma, they had created a mock up of 221B, but surreal and incomplete. John would get a wistful expression on his face and he would tell Sherlock they still visited there, but Sherlock remembered nothing. John surmised it had something to do with the experiences Sherlock had had there, they had left him scarred somehow. Not wishing to discuss it because it made him extremely uncomfortable, John had let it go. There was a small part of him that wished John wouldn't give up so easily.

Some mornings, on days when Sherlock slept late, few and far between as they were, he would awaken to John staring at him, a look in his navy eyes that seemed to ask him something. John would sigh and his eyes would clear and he would refrain from asking yet again if Sherlock remembered. Instead he would give Sherlock a proper morning greeting, involving tongue and hands. Sherlock always pretended he didn't know what John was silently saying in those first few minutes.

Opening the door to their flat he immediately noticed two things, one made him frustrated and the other deeply annoyed.

The first was the realization that John hadn't returned. There was no scent of John, no coat on the hook, no sounds of bustling about making tea, no welcoming kiss. An explanation of why John wasn't here to greet him would be forth coming upon his return and he'd have to make it up to Sherlock.

The second was the slightly slower awareness that although John wasn't here, the flat was far from empty. He huffed.

"Mycroft," he said through gritted teeth. Here was the very reason why John wasn't waiting for him. A quick glance at Mycroft, Sherlock glowered at his coat for a few seconds longer before he hung it up. Turning back to snipe at Mycroft, he stopped as he registered his brother's expression. Stalking toward him, he felt a wave of panic erupt inside.

"What happened?" he demanded as he stood looking down at Mycroft. The name _John_ repeated over in his mind so loudly it almost drowned out the reply.

"Sit down, Sherlock. I have something to tell you."

"I will not. Tell me what happened. 'Routine,' you said. 'Not dangerous,' you said."

"Yes, well. We were misled."

"What the hell is that suppose to mean?"

"It means exactly what you think it means."

"That you or rather your people are incompetent."

"Sherlock, please." Mycroft rarely used that word with him. Sherlock sank into John's chair and placed his head in his hands whilst Mycroft continued speaking. "We were informed, with very strong evidence, that a terrorist attack was going to be taking place in London in the near future. One of my agents was found unconscious with all evidence suggesting he had vital information to relay. He was unable to do so. I asked John if he would be willing to try Dream Merging." He paused and waited.

Sherlock looked up, anger welled up inside. "You asked him that? I thought it was just going to be standard therapy. I wouldn't have allowed him to go if I'd known. After everything he went through with me? The last time he tried, he couldn't do it without getting sick. That didn't dissuade you?" Sherlock was livid with Mycroft but he also felt furious with John. How dare he put himself through that? He was supposed to keep himself safe.

"I believe John is an adult and quite capable of making up his own mind. He has a unique skill set that was necessary for this mission. You do not own him, Sherlock, as much as you feel you do. You weren't informed because it was classified."

"That's never stopped you in the past, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked steadily at Sherlock. "It is pointless to bicker about whether or not John should have taken this assignment. It is pointless to assign blame. Your partner is missing, as are several other key members of his team. He was taken from the facilities where he was attempting the Dream Merging under the watchful eyes of highly trained agents." Mycroft looked away from Sherlock and swallowed.

"They're dead, aren't they?"

"No one from the facility was left alive."

The thread of panic that had entwined his chest tightened further. "How do you know John's alive?" Sherlock would not break down in front of his brother.

"We are not entirely sure. Footage from the facility shows John being taken in the middle of the Merging. I have the footage for you if you wish to see it. I should warn you some of it isn't pretty." He cleared his throat. "There were others there whom you know. They put up a fight, not wishing the procedure to be interrupted. Some were hurt in the attack, but seem to have been removed along with John."

"John's former partners? Sarah and Mike? They were there as well, weren't they? Of course, you needed them to help with the merging." He felt a quickly suppressed pang of remorse; in spite of the fact that Sarah Sawyer had once slapped him rather hard, he admired her and she and Mike were friends of John's. Sentiment had no place in this for anyone who was not John. He summarily dismissed them.

"Do we know who? Or why? Dammit Mycroft. If something happens…" he couldn't finish the sentence. Something already had happened and he hadn't been there to stop it. The urge to throttle his brother grew exponentially. Right now he needed to be clear headed to help John, to get him back. Thrusting down his feelings of anger, fear and loss, he said, "show me the footage."

oOo

As best he could tell he'd been here three days. He wavered between believing he was really stuck on a deserted island or deciding it was a dream. It scared him how much he couldn't tell. He remembered very little of what had happened to him before waking up here. He remembered very little about who he was. Something had happened to him, that much was true. Someone was missing. He knew that as well. Someone a part of him, the itch of his absence tingled like the memory of an amputated limb. Someone who was as much a part of him as his heart or his mind or, if you believed in that sort of thing, his soul. He would turn expecting to see the glimpse of a smile just for him, hear a voice whisper things in his ear, but there was nothing except the wind, the waves and the odd sounds coming out of the jungle.

And the ever present beeping sound, very faint and hard to hear, except at night or when the wind died.

When he woke the morning after his first remembered day, he had decided dream, because things were happening on this island that didn't in the real world. The longer he stayed here the harder it became to distinguish. When he thought about the real world, it seemed as much of a lie as this island. Now and then he would get flashes of a flat, with a fireplace and oddly a bison skull hanging in midair. That alone could have dissuaded him from accepting it as reality without the presence of the apple tree growing beside the fireplace and the sky above instead of a ceiling.

Mentally shrugging, he continued building a rough lean-to using the large drift wood tree as a frame. He had been working away at it, constructing it out of materials found in the jungle. The sweat that trickled down his back, between his shoulder blades was another sign that made him think this was real. The presence of the large greenish moon hanging in the sky in broad daylight convinced him it was not. The constant shift between the two made his head hurt. He paused and took a swig of water.

Here was more evidence this was not reality. Objects necessary for survival did not suddenly appear lying in the sand next to where you were sleeping. Objects that had not been there the night before; waterproof matches, an axe, a hunting knife, some rope, a pot as well as a plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon, a large jug to hold water, a blanket, a small fishing net and oddly a hammock. Either his mind had supplied the things he needed in order to have a nice relaxing holiday on a deserted island or someone had dropped them here while he slept. He never slept deeply and always had an ear out for noises, ever since his army days. He rather wished if a mysterious stranger had indeed left them, they had thought to leave a novel or two and perhaps some tea.

The shelter was almost complete and as it seemed from the odd light in this place to be getting late in the day he decided to stop and see if today was any better for catching fish. There was an inlet further up the beach where he had found tidal pools and the water was quiet. He was hoping for some protein to supplement the diet of fruit he had found.

His few belongings were tidied up and he picked up the net and the pot in case he caught anything. The air smelled fresh, of sea and sand and anticipation and longing. The sand shifted pleasantly under his feet. Now and then he would stop and look around, as he checked the horizon for any indication he was not alone. He didn't look very hard. There was a persistent belief that since he didn't know who he was, no one would be looking for him and it haunted his thoughts.

When he came to the tidal pool, he put down the net and pot and spent what felt like an hour or so looking at the creatures that had been caught and left behind. He was lucky in that there were some rather large mussels clinging to the rocks. He also found a good size crab. The crab was neatly caught and went into the pot; he turned the pot upside down on a rock and hoped the crab didn't scurry off. The mussels were a bit harder, which from what he remembered of his days looking for mussels at the beach near his grandparents, if they were hard to remove, they were safe to eat. You didn't want to eat ones that came away easily, because they were likely to be diseased or old.

He stopped abruptly with two or three mussels in his hand and stared out over the water. There it was, bright and shining, a memory of his forgotten past. He had had grandparents and they lived near the ocean. Eyes closed, he thought furiously as he tried to picture the other beach, shadowed and misty, as precious to him as the food and shelter here. There were differences. The sand was darker and strewn with seaweed. It was rocky and the water was colder. There was a cliff with steps, like a wooden staircase leading up to the top where he knew it was windswept and barren, with nothing but some scraggy pines and clumps of heather. Try as he might he couldn't remember anything else, not even the faces of his grandparents. Someone else flickered at the edge of his memory, a girl, younger than him, a halo of sorrow surrounded the image of her. Something bad had happened.

As abruptly as the memory came it was gone but the sadness the recollection had produced lingered. He looked down at the mussels in his hand and wondered what was the point; he was stuck here with no memory and no hope.

Perhaps it was the thoughts of long ago grandparents, but a phrase from the past seemed to follow his thoughts back to where he was now. A voice in his head seemed to say not to give up. An odd phrase kept repeating, something he was sure his grandmother had said, not exactly appropriate but comforting just the same. 'Half a loaf is better than no bread at all. A little is better than nothing.' Shaking the feelings away as best he could, he carefully picked up the pot, shoved the crab back in and dropped the mussels in beside it. He walked back to the rough camp and filled the pot with water from the jug. Leaving the crab in the pot, he put the mussels in his cup, with some water to rinse. He would wrap those in seaweed and steam them near the edge of the fire. After he built up the fire and the crab was ready to cook, he would go back to the stream and fill the jug again. Turning to put away the unused net in the shelter, he noticed something on the blanket he had spread on the ground. He bent to pick it up. It was a small packet of tea.

oOo

Sarah was tired. Little sleep and not enough to eat had sapped any energy she had. Add that to her aching head and various scrapes and cuts and she was coming close to collapsing.

Hunched over the computer and monitoring John's vital signs, she tried to make herself as small as possible. The uniformed guards delighted in making her stay here miserable. They were a little more wary of her after her first day of fighting back, not afraid to punch and kick at any unwanted advances.

She stretched, trying to relieve her cramped position. The need for a decent cup of coffee and the use of a shower wouldn't go amiss, but neither was likely to magically appear. Because she couldn't get what she wanted, it delighted her to no end to provide little luxuries to John.

Between the time John had left the program and now, she and Mike had perfected and refined Dream Merging. The reality created inside a patient's head appeared more real and more stable, allowing the doctor to help centre and stabilize a patient. The technician watching the procedure was better able to interpret the thoughts and images of the patient and help to provide them with things they needed. Sarah had been working with a promising doctor who worked with young patients suffering from horrific nightmares. Dr. Scott seemed to know exactly what a patient needed to comfort them and Sarah could help shape the program to provide it. It saved Dr. Scott from always having to create things on his own, which could be time consuming and it helped young patients transition better until they could create required items. It was this technology she was using with John.

Somehow, somewhere these people, whoever they were, had recreated her drug. Somehow they had also recreated Mike and John's computer program, including the updates Mike had worked on since John had left.

They didn't want John to know he was dreaming and she had to be careful what she did to let him discover it for himself. The biggest problem was that he had been pulled abruptly from the merge with Mycroft Holmes' agent, fortunately before the man had been shot in the head. She had no idea if John had been successful in retrieving the necessary information or not.

Not that it mattered now.

A noise at the door drew her attention away from the screen she was watching.

A short, dark haired woman marched through the door and over to Sarah's station. She stood observing Sarah with cold eyes.

"You are Dr. Sawyer, correct?" Her accent was an odd mixture of something Sarah couldn't readily identify with a few British inflections. Someone who had been born and raised with a different language as their native tongue but had spent enough time in England to develop an overlay of local speech.

"Yes and you are?" she said, her chin went up, a habit from when she was younger and confronted with bullies. It gave her a feeling of false confidence. She was proud of the fact she had kept the quaver out of her voice. Of course it had only been one short sentence.

"My name is of no concern to you. Suffice it say that at this moment and in this place I hold the key to your longevity. I am sure you are more than willing to continue to assist us. For your sake and for the sake of your colleagues, Dr. Watson and Dr. Stamford." A slight smile tugged at the corner of the woman's mouth.

"I find it highly unlikely you will hurt Dr. Watson since you need him for some reason."

The smile broadened. "That is correct, for now. But it isn't necessary to have two of you watching over Dr. Watson and Dr. Stamford or yourself could easily be removed. However, I am not here merely to threaten you. You will need to begin integrating another person into Dr. Watson's mind, using this dream technique of yours."

Sarah sighed wearily. "This isn't something just anyone can do. It takes time to develop the ability. I am also not sure how much good it will do to go into John's head. It was very traumatizing to him when he was pulled out of the Dream Merge at the government facilities. He appears to be struggling with memory loss."

"Do not worry so much, Dr. Sawyer. The person who will be entering into Dr. Watson's head has had some experience with this technique, perhaps not with as sophisticated machinery as you have created, but they are no novice."

"And who is the candidate?" Sarah asked, although she had an idea as to the answer.

"Me, of course."


	3. Deluge in a Paper Cup

**A/N: So sorry about the slowness of an update on this. Last chapter was posted in March. I blame lots of things:D The list is vast and far too long to go into now. You can reach my solicitors at an undisclosed address and during an illogical interval.**

**Just a friendly reminder that in this AU John is not a surgeon or GP. He is a specialist in dream therapy although he has had some medical training. He was also in the army. Also he hadn't met Sherlock until after the events of the Great Game.**

**Recognize the quote at the beginning during John's musings? It's slightly important to the developing plot;)**

**Thanks again to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over &amp; putting up with my nonsense:D**

3\. Deluge in a Paper Cup

He fingered the tea packet, staring at it and swallowed.

An odd mixed feeling of melancholy and unease surged through him.

Would he find a book next? A head shake side-to-side as he placed the tea with his store of supplies. It would be saved for later. There was no guarantee he would get more and he was a little wary over it's sudden appearance. It was uncannily like mindreading and it stirred up some dredge of recollection, like his ideas were taking form in the simplest way. Perhaps he should name this place The Island Where Dreams Came True? (_This is where dreams-dreams, do you understand-come to life, come real. Not daydreams; dreams_). Not the least bit accurate of course, if they really did he'd know his name.

Taking pieces from his supply of dried wood, he placed them upon the banked coals and was soon able to blow up a catching spark. After feeding the flames, the crab and water filled pot set on a flattened area, he picked up the empty jug and walked back to the stream.

Returning, he waited patiently for the crab to cook. He wrapped the mussels in damp seaweed and buried them over some coals saved from the fire. The sky darkened, the moon, which never completely disappeared, was joined by a trickle of stars. Time seemed jumbled and random. It hadn't been that long ago that he had awakened to a new day and now it was night.

His head ached. There must be a head injury. It would explain the memory loss and the jumps in time.

Sooner than he thought it would be, the crab was ready to be pulled out of the pot. His mind was peacefully blank while he ate. After he tidied he realized how exhausted he was. If he was recovering from a head injury, he needed his rest so he lay down next to the fire. The night was fine and he wanted to watch the stars. His eyes closed and he slipped into sleep. Odd to feel like he was in a dream and sleeping. Barely asleep, he heard it, the incessant beeping and the strange mutterings. Slowly, and for the first time, the voices became clearer.

_beep, beep, beep, steady, continual, driving, maddeningly familiar_

_Watch the levels. He was close to surfacing._

_Shit! Okay, there. Got it. _

_His fluid levels are better than when they brought him here. He should be stabilized now. _

_Wonder why he picked an island?_

_He didn't. They did. Well_, she_ demanded it. Said it was vital._

_Huh. Weird._

_Shhh! Not here._

_Don't worry. Anyway I don't really care._

_It's fascinating. You should see where he normally goes. Weird location. It's in the middle of a meadow with a fucking apple tree, for god sakes. _

_Why not use that?_

_Too many memories associated with it. Ah yes, better. He's responding._

_He's ready. Tell them to send her in._

_beep, beep, beep, constant, incessant_

_nothing for a long time and then…_

"Hello?!"

Awaking with a start, his heart felt like it would burst out of his chest.

"Hello! Anyone there?"

He stood, feeling dream mussed.

"Helloooo! You there!"

Turning to look behind him, he could just make out a figure away off down the beach.

His heart beat harder and for a moment he felt anticipation. It was gone as quickly as it had come. The person, whoever they were, was too short. They began waving frantically and raced toward him. As they came closer he could see it was a woman. In spite of the promise of human contact and maybe some answers, he was crushingly disappointed. It wasn't whom he had been yearning for.

She ran up to him and flung her arms around him, embracing him hard with a strength that belied her fragile appearance. She was sobbing.

"Oh thank God! I thought we were alone, stuck here. It's been so difficult." He could just make out what she was saying through her tears.

He awkwardly patted her on the back.

"Shh, it's okay! Who are you?"

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she continued to talk very fast.

"We've been here for days. Barely any food. No shelter and he's hurt. He's hurt and so small. I didn't know what to do." She looked at his camp bewildered. "You've set things up beautifully. How on earth? This is amazing. But never mind that. Please, you've got to come. He's so close to dying. Can you help? Can you come?"

"Slow down. Who's hurt? What are his injuries?" Something inside took over and it seemed as if a new part of his brain opened up. Medical information filled his head although his brain felt rusty and full of holes. Perhaps he had been a doctor.

"I'm so sorry." She was wringing her hands. "You must come. He's delirious and doesn't know who he is. He's so young. I've been giving him water but he won't wake up. Please?"

"Okay. Let me grab the blanket and mug. Here take the water."

She looked at the jug he handed her and frowned. "Where did you get this? How? We came here with nothing."

"I don't really know. I woke up one morning and they were lying beside me. Look. It isn't important. We can figure it out later. Take me to the injured person. Young, you said? A boy?"

She shook her head and squared her shoulders. "Of course you're right; we will deal with this later." Her tone was off and he wasn't sure she meant it the same way he did but he ignored it and listened to what she was describing.

"Yes. He is maybe about seven, maybe? Not much older. He has been muttering a lot, in and out of consciousness. Mostly out. He seems feverish and his skin is flushed, but not sunburned. We don't seem to burn, do you? I asked him once during a more lucid moment his name and he didn't know."

Interesting. Someone else who didn't know who they were.

"Do you…you know your name?"

She looked at him, a gleam of something in her eyes he couldn't place. "Of course I do. It's Mary. What's your name?"

"I…I am not sure."

She frowned. "You either? What's going on? "

He shook his head.

They made their way up the beach and rounded a promontory of land he hadn't remembered seeing before this. Soon they came upon a small clearing and there in the middle on the ground, curled up in a ball was a small boy. Dark hair stuck up everywhere as if he or someone had been tearing at the roots. His back was toward them and his skinny arms were wrapped around his thin frame. He was so small he looked much younger than seven. Something about the dark hair stirred a memory.

_Long fingers running through dark curls, pulling at them, tugging. _

"_I can't think! Help me think!"_

"_It will come. Don't push so hard. Here," he lifted the hand from the hair and held it in his own. He brought it to his mouth and placed a careful kiss on the back. He sat on the arm of a sofa and placed his arm around a lanky man who leaned into his embrace._

_A soft kiss on the forehead. _

His head hurt and he rubbed at it.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just a memory. I can't seem to hang on to them. I'm not sure who I am or remember anything. Maybe it's something to do with this place."

They reached the boy. Carefully laying the blanket across the shivering figure, he laid the back of a hand on his forehead. Definitely a fever.

He tipped the jug and poured water into the mug. He tore a small piece of material off of the edge of his t-shirt and dipped it into the mug and wiped the forehead of the boy.

The boy turned into his touch, the cool cloth momentarily revived him and his eyes opened briefly. They were the darkest brown he had ever seen, almost black. The boy looked at him, frowned, rolled onto his back and closed his eyes once more.

"If we can, we should move him to the shelter. You will both be safer and more comfortable there. Here, let me lift him. You take the other stuff." He bent down to scoop up the frail body. Although the boy felt light in his arms and weighed very little, there was a heavy feeling in his heart when he lifted him. A feeling of unease and dread settled there and the boy seemed far heavier than he looked.

They walked slowly back to his small encampment where he carefully placed the boy down upon the mat of woven palm fronds. Mary covered him with the blanket. They left him for a moment to talk quietly outside.

"I wish I had something to bring down the fever. We'll just have to do it the old fashioned way. Let's get you something to eat. I have a bit of fruit here and some mussels cooking. They should be ready. I hope you like shellfish."

"I'm hungry enough to eat you," Mary grinned at him, an open and friendly smile. He couldn't help but smile back. She had a cute little nose crinkle.

"Well we'll get you sorted and while you're eating, I'll cool the boy down. We can't keep calling him the boy. What should we call him?"

Mary thought for a moment. "I've always liked the name Jim. Let's call him that. But what about you? You need a name, too."

He frowned. Nothing came to mind and he guessed anything was better than nothing. "I have no idea."

She smiled again, warm and friendly, full of mischief. "What about John. You seem like a John."

A warm glow and a feeling of rightness. This. Almost, he could hear a deep, velvety chocolate baritone whisper it in his ear. _John_.

"Yes. I think that will do," he nodded and smiled a little more warmly, a little less hesitantly in Mary's direction. "Let's see about getting things sorted, shall we?"

As he walked away from her toward the fire, the smile left her face and she threw a worried glance toward the boy sleeping in the shelter and whispered, "Soon, we'll get you back to yourself. Soon."

oOo

Mycroft had been right. The destruction of the lab was not pretty. It was outright carnage. A short, dark haired woman led the team and shot anyone in her path, one neat, well placed bullet to the head of everyone in her way, everyone except John, Sarah and Mike.

Carefully, he watched the copy Mycroft had brought, eyes tracking her as she entered and walked coolly through the facility. She was ruthless and efficient. Well-informed too, as she certainly knew where she was going and how to get there. He almost flinched, almost, when she walked up to John, lying still and small (_when had he ever seemed so small?_) hooked up to that machine again. He almost but not quite looked the other way as he watched her shoot the agent, occupying the other bed. Had to watch as she struck Sarah across the face, Sarah who tried to protect John, yelled at them to stop, told them they may have damaged John, ruined his mind, trapped him inside. Part of him died a little when he heard that. Listened to the small, ruthless woman as her dispassionate, crisp voice ordered her men to unhook and move John.

He felt sick. Never had he hated someone as much as he hated her. She had John.

John. His John, who had been alone and vulnerable; he hadn't been there for him and he should have been.

Speaking to his brother over his shoulder, he couldn't look directly at him. He couldn't forgive Mycroft for allowing this to happen. He couldn't forgive himself.

"What do we know about her? She's the key."

"We know very little. We suspect much."

"Tell me. Everything."

There was a rustle of paper and the sound of footsteps as Mycroft moved to Sherlock and held out a file, stamped with the usual warnings and tags in bold red.

"She has a few aliases we are aware of. Likely more we are not. She has covered her tracks well. Marta Gajda, Melaina Petro, Maria Morris, Marlene Moran. Her real name has yet to be identified. We believe she may possibly have been a colonel in the Russian army, but that is guesswork as is her country of birth. Crack shot as you can see." Mycroft's smile was wintery. "Our latest intelligence suggests she was stripped of her rank for questionable morality and went freelance. She may or may not have ties to the CIA. They would be interested in her special talents."

He pulled a photograph from the slim file. "We do have one lead though that will be of particular interest." The picture was held out to Sherlock who took it and studied it. Two figures came into focus and a jolt of recognition shot through him. A small, sharp bolt of loathing filled him. The photograph showed a grainy picture of the woman talking to a very familiar face, someone whose last known whereabouts had been the roof of Bart's hospital. Someone he had watched blow his own brains out. A gun to the mouth will do that.

A singular individual whose body had never been recovered.

"We believe she may have been in the employ of James Moriarty and are strongly convinced she was the sniper tasked with shooting Molly Hooper when he was persuading you to jump."

Sherlock sat back, one finger at his lip as he thought.

"There has to be a connection between her and John's abduction. Do you think this is revenge?" Mycroft heard it, although few others would have except John. Sherlock's speaking voice to anyone else was calm and controlled, but underneath there was a slight, very soft tremor.

"We do not know. There is not enough information."

"Find it, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "Find out everything. I don't care how many favours you have to use. I don't care how many I'll owe you. Do everything in your power and get me information."

"It's already being done. I suggest you get some rest. I will return in the morning."

Sherlock paid Mycroft no further attention as he saw himself out. Returning his focus to the computer, he watched the video from the lab again. And again. And once more, hoping to see something, hear anything.

At some point he pulled off his jacket and tossed it to the floor. He must have kicked off his shoes as well although he didn't remember doing it.

Finally he sat back, slumped in his chair. It was dark in the flat. Night had crept up on him and he hadn't noticed. He felt weary and closed his eyes to rest, just for a minute, just briefly to clear his head.

And then he'd watch it again and again until he found something or Mycroft brought him more information. Sleep stole upon him and he dreamt.

He was walking through a meadow. Impossible candy floss clouds filled an unreal blue sky. He was back. With an ache and longing, he hurried toward their place, their special home. Perhaps John was there, already waiting, had somehow found his way from wherever he was. Perhaps he could help him. Over the rise of a hill he came to the oddity of an exact copy of the living room in their flat except there were no walls and an apple tree grew in the corner. Over to one side beneath its swaying branches was an addition that hadn't been there when they first created it together, a large bed, canopied by the fresh green of the tree. He could hear the distant hum of bees.

John was not there, even though he had hoped. Deep down inside he knew he wouldn't be.

He tried calling out John's name. The fey wind that caressed his cheek and blew the clouds picked it up and carried the sound of his voice away. Hope and faith sunk down inside him. Frustrated he kicked the turf knowing he couldn't stay here. It was not the same and it was even lonelier without John than back in the real world.

Picking a direction at random, he started walking away from their shelter. He walked for what seemed like hours and when he wondered if he should turn back, he felt something change.

Over one more knoll, past one more clump of bushes, he came to a hill, which looked out over everything. There was something, in the distance, a glimmer, a bright gleam sparking only the way water does in the sun. With it came the smell of the sea, rich and full of promise. It tugged at his heart. That was where John was. He knew it. He set off walking as fast as he could and felt the shore come closer, the ocean breeze pick up. He would be there soon when…

A loud noise woke him. A car had backfired in the street. He shook his head and sat up. Sleeping deeper than he meant to and from the look of things longer as well. Returning to look at the video with fresh eyes, he hoped he would pick up on one small clue.

He didn't even think about how close he might have come in his dreams. How could he when he never remembered them?


End file.
